


48 Hours

by renecdote



Series: hc_bingo 2017 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Basically Tim is just having a terrible week, Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Caffeine Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Fluff, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 18:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12174126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Everyone knows the first forty-eight hours of caffeine withdrawal are the worst.





	48 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon on tumblr who prompted: "Can you write something about Tim having coffee taken away from him please?" Also using this one to fill my hc_bingo wild card space with "headaches / migraines".
> 
> There are also many batman-related puns sprinkled throughout this so if you feel like making a game out of it, see how many you can find :)

**_14 hours (and counting)_ ** ****_  
_   
It's funny how he never really noticed just how loud the grandfather's clock in the study is before now. Maybe it's because he was usually passing through it, not cocooning himself in the armchairs beside it. Maybe it's because the second hand seems to have synced up with his heartbeat and every tick pulses behind his brows. He thinks maybe the cool, damp air of the cave would numb his headache, but he's under strict orders not to set a foot below ground until Leslie okays it. So he's resigned to waiting up here for Bruce to return from patrol, with only the clock for company.   
  
"Master Timothy?"   
  
And Alfred. Can't forget him, especially not when he's been checking on him every hour or so. His attempts to shuffle him off to bed have been ignored. Tim's pretty sure Alfred's been hoping the next time he pokes his head around the doorway Tim will be asleep.   
  
Ha. What a nice thought, actually being able to fall asleep. You'd think an absence of coffee would help with that, but no, because the universe hates him.   
  
(There's a slight chance he's being a little melodramatic, but after the bad week to end all bad weeks, Tim's pretty sure he's earned the right to be melodramatic.)   
  
"I'm fine, Alfred," he says, past understanding the (suffocating) concern and edging into annoyed. Irritability, he knows, is a symptom of caffeine withdrawal. Knowing it doesn't make him feel the itch under his skin or the ball of pressure in his chest any less though.   
  
"Hm." Alfred looks him over with critical eyes. After the fainting episode yesterday - which really wasn't as bad as Dick made it out to be, honestly, he'd just been a little bit dizzy and dealt with it by sitting down a bit faster than normal... and the middle of the main staircase had been closer than any chairs - Tim's assessment of his own health has been deemed unreliable.   
  
"Perhaps-" and that's Alfred's 'I'm going to phrase this as a suggestion but it's really an order' voice "-you'd be more comfortable upstairs." _In your bed. Sleeping. Like a good little patient._   
  
It's the third time tonight such a suggestion has been made. And just like the times before, Tim shrugs and says, "I can't sleep. May as well be awake down here and be productive instead of just staring at my ceiling."   
  
(Not that he _is_ being very productive. He's been flicking between the case he and Bruce had been working before he was benched and a half-finished organic chemistry essay without actually adding anything to either of them. He's hoping a doctor's certificate will excuse him from the latter because there's no way he's going to get it done by tomorrow night without a shot or three of coffee.)   
  
Alfred sighs. Like Tim's being difficult on purpose. As though he's choosing to suffer through the coffee withdrawal from hell because someone decided to prescribe him medication that interacts badly with caffeine. Tim had been willing to take the risk, but Alfred had removed all caffeinated foods and drinks from the Manor before his prescription had even been filled.   
  
(The ensuing... discussion was absolutely not a tantrum. Dick had no right to tell Babs and Steph that it was.)

And Tim doesn't see _why_ he needs the stupid antibiotics anyway. This morning he'd only had a fever, now he feels terrible. He’s exhausted, his head is pounding, he’s starting to feel sick to his stomach - and he still has the fever. So much for the antibiotics making him feel better.

"Perhaps a cup of tea might help," Alfred suggests.   
  
Tim grimaces. He doesn't have a problem with most teas, but the caffeine-free herbal concoctions Alfred has been trying to ply him with all day taste worse than the polluted Gotham Harbour water he took an unplanned dip in the other night. "No, thank you," he says.   
  
There are already enough empty cups and water bottles scattered on the side table and floor around the chair he's claimed anyway; evidence of his attempts to drown his headache into submission. Every website he'd read on how to minimise caffeine withdrawal symptoms had lied through their metaphorical teeth though because it has barely taken the edge of. All it achieved was making him constantly need to pee. (Yet another reason to be grumpy and uncomfortable.)   
  
"Let me know if you change your mind," Alfred says even though they both know Tim won't. He picks up a few of the cups and then leaves for the kitchen, where he will no doubt prepare a post-patrol snack for when Batman and Nightwing return. Tim will probably be forced to eat some of it as well since he'd barely touched dinner. Nobody had pressed about his lack of appetite at the time but he's sure it'll be just one more thing to discuss on the list of ways he hasn't been taking care of himself by the time Alfred returns.   
  
But for now it is once again just Tim and his headache and the damned clock.   
  
_Tick tick tick._   
  
_Tick. Tick-tick._   
  
_Tick-tick. Tick._   
  
Another forty minutes and the clock finally opens. Tim perks up, willing some energy into his foggy brain. It's not Bruce who steps out though, but Dick, freshly showered and dressed in bright red sweats and a Ramones shirt that probably belongs to Bruce.   
  
"Hey Timmy," he greets.   
  
Tim grunts. He doesn't mean to be rude but his bad mood cannot deal with Dick's vivacious positivity right now. Thankfully, Dick is the emotionally sensitive one of the family so he picks up on this (it's entirely possible he may have also had some forewarning from Alfred) and just smiles as he takes the other armchair with a casual, "Mind if I join you?" He doesn't even give into the temptation to ruffle Tim's hair which is appreciated, even if the restraint from tactile affection is a little out of character. It's almost unnerving. Tim’s blaming some kind of weird misplaced guilt Dick is feeling, because of course he'd find a way to feel guilty even though Tim being sick and miserable isn't his fault.

"Is Bruce back?" Tim asks.  
  
"He got in just after me, I'm sure he'll be up soon."   
  
They wait in silence. Tim can feel Dick watching him, can practically taste the concern thickening the air (did it just get harder to breathe in here? shortness of breath wasn't a possible side effect of the medication was it?), and he makes a valiant effort to keep his drooping eyelids open. They've been falling shut all evening and it's only made Tim more cranky because it doesn't matter how tired his body thinks he is, when he actually laid down and tried to sleep, his brain wouldn't let him. Caffeine withdrawal is stupid and he hates it.   
  
It's between one long blink and the next that the clock swings open a second time and Bruce enters the study. Another blink and he's leaning over Tim with a frown. "You should be resting."   
  
Tim makes a conscious effort not to grind his teeth. He is so over hearing that. "Maybe if someone would let me have some coffee my brain would stop hating me and I actually _could_ get some rest."   
  
"Leslie said the antibiotics-"   
  
"I know what Leslie said!" Tim snaps. His head throbs in protest to his own raised voice. His eyes burn, pent up frustration, irritation and exhaustion seeking release in the salty drops he won't let fall. He takes a deep breath and softens his voice before continuing, "I just need a little bit, not much. I did some research-" He leans forward to pick up the thin binder he'd compiled instead of napping earlier and holds it out to Bruce. Bruce doesn't take it. "-and there have been some reported cases where there were no adverse effects. Even more only had minor side-effects and were able to-"   
  
"Timmy," Dick interrupts. He leans far enough forward that anyone else would probably have fallen off the chair so he can rest a hand on Tim's knee. "You get that we're talking about your _health_ , right? We're not going to take chances with that."   
  
"But-"   
  
"No." Bruce's word is law. "No coffee until you're off the antibiotics."   
  
Tim slumps back in his chair. _If I survive that long._

\--  
  
**_19 1/2 hours (still counting)_ ** ****__  
  
He doesn't make any effort to get up until Alfred comes up to wake him just after nine for breakfast and another dose of antibiotics. Despite not going to bed until almost four a.m. he hadn't really slept. The five hours in bed had been spent napping fitfully between restless tossing and turning. He'd gotten up and gone to the bathroom earlier, thought about whether being clean was worth the effort of showering (it wasn't), then crawled back beneath the covers because not only does his head hate him but now his entire body is aching as well.   
  
What's the point of getting up anyway? Not like Bruce or Alfred - or even Dick, if he hasn't gone back to the Haven yet - will let him do anything. He can't train, he can't focus enough to work on schoolwork or cases, he can't work on any of his side projects because he's not allowed in the Cave. All they want him to do is rest. So he may as well just stay in bed.   
  
Alfred does not agree. He pulls open the curtains and makes Tim relocate to his desk to eat breakfast so he can change the sheets on the bed. Except he doesn't change the sheets so much as pull them off to be washed without replacing them. Tim scowls down at his plate.   
  
Breakfast is a simple affair of toast and fruit arranged on a tray with a steaming mug of peppermint tea. Tim picks up the fork and picks through the fruit to get all the apple pieces. They're green and crunchy and the perfect amount of sour. On any other day, they'd also be appealing.

"Eat up, Master Tim," Alfred says. "You can't take your antibiotics on an empty stomach."  
  
Tim eats just enough to avoid Alfred's wrath, obediently swallows the pills handed to him, then pillows his head on his arms and stares out the window. There's a flash of white then thunder rolls across the sky. Tim watches the wind lash rain against his window. A shiver starts between his shoulders and rolls down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He ignores the way Alfred purses his lips as he picks up the breakfast tray.

“You know, the tea will only help if you drink it.”

“Maybe later.” An empty platitude.

Alfred sighs, sits the tray back down, and leans his hip against the desk to regard Tim with his full attention. “If it is the taste that troubles you, there are plenty of alternatives for caffeinated beverages. I’m sure we could find something that you like.”

What Tim would _like_ is a steaming mug of the dark roast that has mysteriously vanished from its usual home above the coffee maker. But what Tim would like isn't really the priority these days, just what's _good_ for him. Even if whatever that is doesn't actually make him feel good.

He drums up a smile - half-hearted and unconvincing as it may be - though because Alfred has done nothing but try to help and Tim should at least try to be grateful. “Maybe later?” It’s more of a suggestion this time. A reassurance that Tim will try to make an effort but right now he doesn’t want to taste-test a bunch of herbal drinks. Right now he’d prefer to just be alone and…He doesn’t want to call it wallowing because that makes him sound pathetic but. He’s allowed to feel sorry for himself isn’t he?

“I will be back to make the bed in a few hours,” Alfred says. “I was going to suggest some fresh air would do you good in the meantime but it appears the weather is against me.”

A particularly loud crack of thunder echoes through the room and Tim jumps. _More like against me,_ he thinks glumly.

\--

 **_24 hours (halfway there...)_ ** ****_  
_   
_Hey dude you coming to the tower this weekend??_   
  
Kon’s innocent text has been staring up at him from his phone's lock screen for the past two hours. Tim would think his best friend was mocking him except a) there's no way he knows what's been happening in Gotham in the last week, and b) that message had been followed by two more asking him if everything was alright when he hadn’t replied as quickly as usual. Which it isn't, but Tim can't just say that because Superboy will probably crash through his window before he can give an explanation. And then both Bruce and Alfred will be mad.

 _Sorry, not this weekend_ , he finally starts to type, one-handed with his phone dangerously close to slipping and smacking him in the face. Then he pauses because the truth is too embarrassing ( _funny story: I tripped over my own feet and fell off the docks and got sick even though Nightwing dived in to pull me out and he's fine. Oh and apparently all those cracks about my coffee dependecy are right because I feel like I'm dying without it_ ) but he needs an excuse close enough to it that it holds up under scrutiny. He types and deletes _bat business_ then _I got hurt_ and _B benched me_ before settling on a simple _I’m sick._

There's the rap of knuckles against wood and then Dick is sticking his head into the room Tim has holed himself up in. It's some kind of indoor-outdoor sitting room on the ground floor of the West wing, coloured in soft hues and awash with natural light, thanks to a wide wall of sliding doors that open onto a closed in verandah. Tim chose it for its solitude, tucked away in the far end of the Manor as it is, as well as the creamy hammock chair he's currently curled up in.

“There you are,” Dick says cheerfully. He walks over and sits by Tim’s feet, pushing gently with his foot so the hammock rocks slowly back and forth. “Alfred's looking for you. It's time for lunch.”

Tim closes his eyes against the nauseating blur of the grounds outside from the hammock’s movement. “Not hungry.”

“C’mon Timmy.” There's something earnest and pleading in Dick’s voice that makes Tim crack open an eye to look up at him. “You're worrying us, kiddo.”

Tim sighs. “I’m sorry. I just… I don't feel well.”

Dick presses the back of his hand against Tim’s forehead and gives an approving hum. “Your fever’s gone down at least,” he says. “Another day or two and B will probably let you out on light patrol again.”

Tim doubts it, but it's nice of Dick to try to cheer him up.

His phone buzzes and he almost smiles at the string of sad faces Kon has sent him, followed by _that sucks man! Do you want me to bring you some of Ma’s soup? I swear it's magic._

 _Not that kind of sick,_ Tim replies, because occasionally he respects Batman’s rule about no metas in Gotham. Plus he's not sure he could deal with his best friend’s energy right now. _Just a migraine, I'll be fine in a day or so._

(Hopefully.)

\--

**_30 hours (so over it by now)_ **

Good news: Leslie gave him a doctor’s certificate and Alfred called the school so he doesn't have to hand in his essay until next week.

Bad news: Leslie is concerned about how he's handling the caffeine withdrawal (that is: Not Well). The reason Tim takes issue with this is that he's pretty sure she has a point. His rocky relationship with mental health isn't exactly a secret, and caffeine withdrawal has been known to cause low moods and periods of depression.

But if asked how he's feeling right now? Tim would say he's mad. Mostly at Leslie for cutting off his caffeine supply then saying it's _affecting him._ Also at himself, though, and his crappy immune system, because he'd been doing well until he'd slipped on the docks and breathed in a bit too much polluted Gotham water. Really, a minor infection is a pretty good outcome, but as has been mentioned: Tim is having trouble looking on the bright side of this situation.

Coffee would help. Coffee _always_ helps. Unfortunately, he’d tried to sneak out an hour ago to find java elsewhere and Dick caught him. So now he's being - he shudders at the term - _babysat_ . Dick hadn't called it that; Dick had called it bonding time. But Tim is not stupid. He _knows_ what this video game session is really about.

Also. Video games? Really Dick? His head is throbbing and you think bright colours and loud sounds will help? This is why Tim doubts brotherly affection was the primary motivation.

“Damn this level is hard,” Dick mutters, then louder, “Hey, you want a turn Timmy? You're good at these things, maybe you can get past this level.”

Tim is lying facedown on a beanbag that has no right being as big or as comfortable as it is. He absently strokes the smooth, leathery material (is it real leather? a really good fake? you never know with Bruce) and wonders whether Alfred will let him move it to his room. He would make a (slightly more) dedicated effort to sleeping regularly if he could sleep on this.

“Ngh,” he mumbles into the beanbag. What he's trying to say is: _No, Dick, I do not want a turn. My head hurts and this beanbag is comfy so I'd really just prefer not to move._ But words. Too many of them. Too much effort.

A sock-covered toe pokes him in the ribs and Tim swats at it. Half-heartedly and with none of his usual coordination. Dick chuckles and his toes trail down to dig into the fleshy part under Tim’s ribcage. Jokes on him though: Tim’s too exhausted to be ticklish right now.

“Stop it,” Tim grumbles. “‘M tryin’ to nap.”

He’s relaxed enough and his head heavy enough that he may actually be able to as well. If Dick will let him.

There’s a musical chime from the television and then blessed silence as the game is turned off. Tim is relieved for all of three seconds before the beanbag shifts under him with the addition of another body and his perfect, boneless position is disturbed. When the movement finally stops, Tim finds himself lying half on top of his older brother, his head on Dick’s shoulder, and arm across his back. There is a part of him that protests: it’s too hot for cuddling. But most of him? Most of him hasn’t been this comfortable in days. He doesn’t quite sleep, but he drifts, sleep and content in his brother’s arms.

\--

**_35 1/4 hours (so close… and yet, so far…)_ **

Tim’s pretty sure his fever has gone up again. Either that or the Manor’s heating is on the fritz, because the bathroom tile is like ice against his skin. He splays his hands on the wall of the shower, centring himself with the smooth granite as steam dances around him. The hot water beating against his skin feels amazing but a relaxing shower might not have been the best idea when he's feeling a bit lightheaded.

He takes a deep breath, holds it for five seconds, breathes out slowly. A drop of water snakes down from his hair and into his eye. He tips his head forward until his forehead is resting against the tile and-

A knock on the door startles him and he jerks away from the wall, knocking over a bottle of shampoo and almost slipping. His Bat reflexes aren't quite up to par at the moment; it's probably a good thing Bruce isn't letting him patrol.

“Tim?” Bruce calls through the door. “Everything okay? You've been in there a while.”

Of course it's Bruce. Tim had been wondering when he’d cave and check on him himself. Alfred and Dick’s reports can only go so far in satisfying Batman.

“I’m fine!” Tim yells, swearing under his breath as he turns off the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He leans against the sink, staring at his pale reflection, the smudges under his eyes so dark they look like bruises. He prods one gently, just to make sure it isn’t actually a bruise. He had walked into a doorway earlier; it doesn’t hurt but maybe he could play if off as a bruise instead of a  crushing sleep debt and everyone might stop worrying about him so much?

He snorts. More likely that would just give them even more reason to wrap him in blankets or bubble wrap and lock him in his room until he’s well.

“Tim?”

This time Bruce actually sounds concerned which. Not good. At all. It takes a lot to get Bruce to actually show his worry like a normal person but once he does, you can’t escape it. Tim sighs, mentally adding another day to the time he’s going to be kept home and off patrol. He takes one more second to push away the dizziness creeping up the back of his skull then opens the bathroom door and steps into his bedroom.

“I’m fine,” he repeats off the bat. He’s not quite feeling up to lying to Batman, but if he says it enough times it might come true.

Bruce’s eyes flicker over Tim’s face with a calculating focus that most people think is more Batman but is really just Bruce Wayne: Uncertain-but-Trying Father. It’s the kind of look that makes Tim feel simultaneously fuzzy and awkward inside. Fuzzy because _Bruce cares_. Awkward because it’s usually followed by painful attempts at emotional heart-to-hearts such as-

“I know I’m not always good at his but… maybe we should talk? About how you’re doing?”

Tim wants to laugh because he’s standing in a towel, dripping water all over the carpet, and, now of all times, Bruce wants to _talk_. The fact that Bruce looks a little uncomfortable beneath his usual blank expression isn't as amusing as it usually is.

“I just wanted to make sure-” Bruce starts. Then he stops and frowns pensively at Tim’s bed for a few seconds before starting again. “If you are blaming yourself in any way-”

“I’m not,” Tim interrupts. He pointedly turns his back and rummages through his wardrobe for a very specific pair of Green Lantern pyjama pants and a somewhat-matching shirt. “At this point I’ve accepted that it’s just karma.”

Really, really bad karma. Maybe he didn't save a kitten on patrol or something.

He disappears back into his bathroom to change and when he comes out again, Bruce has moved to sit on the end of his bed but  he hasn’t stopped frowning. Right. Batman doesn’t believe in karma. Which, when he thinks about it, is a little weird. Isn’t justice just a legal way of doling out karma? Maybe he should ask Wonder Woman. She’s a goddess, she probably knows about that kind of stuff.

“Tim.” Bruce’s voice jars him out of his rambling thoughts and Tim has to blink a few times before his adoptive father comes into focus. “Sit down.”

It’s somewhere in that floaty realm between a plea and an order. More than that though, it’s a good idea. Tim sinks down onto the end of his bed and drops his head into his hands. A warm weight rests between his shoulder blades, almost hesitant in the way it traces slow, soothing circles. Once the black spots are gone from the edges of his vision, Tim leans over until his head is on Bruce’s shoulder and Bruce’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders.

“What do you need?” A loaded question.

“Coffee.” A simple answer.

Bruce chuckles. He must have turned his face downward because his breath makes a few strands of Tim’s hair flutter. “Sorry, kid, no can do.”

 _You’re not really sorry,_ Tim wants to argue. Bruce is never sorry when he think he’s doing the best thing for a person. Instead he just sighs and says, “I know.”

His throat feels inexplicably tight and when he blinks, his eyelashes come apart wet. He reaches up to scrub at his eyes because _why he is he even crying?_ Just because he’s having a terrible week and he feels like crap and Bruce is practically hugging him, does not mean he needs to have a breakdown. He sniffs and tries to pull away but Bruce doesn’t let him. A handkerchief is pressed into Tim’s hand and then Bruce’s other arm comes up to cradle the back of Tim’s head and turn it into a proper hug.

The position is a little uncomfortable and he’s getting Bruce’s shirt all wet from messy tears but, just like Dick’s hug earlier, it’s _nice_ . And that is Tim’s undoing. Bruce just strokes his hair and murmurs, “it’s alright, you’re gonna be okay” and a million other platitudes, and Tim clings to the words because _maybe he will_.

\--

**_41 hours (it’s true, it is darkest before the dawn)_ **

Hope was felt too soon. And Tim definitely jinxed himself with the excuse he gave Kon earlier.

“Timmy?” Dick’s voice is barely a whisper but it still feels like Catwoman is digging her sharp claw-like nails into his temple and dragging them back behind his ear. Tim would groan if he wasn't sure that would hurt even more.

He's always suffered from migraines but none as bad as this. Any warning signs had been masked by the caffeine withdrawal and lingering symptoms of illness, so by the time the pain had spiked and he'd taken Imitrex it had been too late to head it off - even if the pills had stayed down. It doesn't help that caffeine usually provides some relief and he's not allowed that at the moment.

Tim really thought this week couldn't get any worse. The universe had cheerfully and emphatically proved him wrong. He wonders, distantly, whether it's a fault of this particular universe or if all the other versions of himself throughout the multiverse are suffering as well. He hopes not; this is hell.

The bed dips under Dick’s weight and gravity pulls Tim toward the edge. He whines because he'd been trying to stay as still as possible so as to avoid his stomach revolting or his skull splitting open. Either is a possibility. Or both. He'd really like to avoid both.

Dick, thankfully, doesn't say anything, but the fingers that flutter over Tim’s neck are apologetic. Then a cool cloth is settled there and this time Tim risks his head exploding to breathe a heartfelt, “Thanks.”

The kiss Dick presses to the top of his head says _you’re welcome_ and _love you little brother_ and _feel better soon._ Tim definitely appreciates that last sentiment. He’s pretty sure everyone else in the Manor is just as over him being sick as he is at this point.

Dick gets up to leave and, in a moment of sudden panic, Tim flings an arm out to stop him. As much as his head would appreciate it, he doesn’t want to be alone right now. Being alone gives him nothing to concentrate on except how awful he feels. The only few moments of relief or comfort in the last two days have been when Bruce or Dick or Alfred were around to distract him. He’d been irritable, ungrateful, about the company at first but now he knows better. Hindsight truly is wonderful. Almost as wonderful as family.

The bed dips again as Dick resettles his weight there and this time Tim curls toward it willingly. Gentle fingers card through his hair, massaging his scalp with just the right amount of pressure.

“Get some rest, Timmy,” Dick whispers. “I’ll be right here.”

\--

**_49 hours (thank. the. lord.)_ **

Tim sleeps deeply. Head tucked under one arm, legs thrown horizontally across the bed, covers bunched up around his ears.

When he wakes up, he won't be magically well. He’ll still be recovering from being sick and he’ll still be going through caffeine withdrawal. He'll probably still be grumpy and feeling lousy, but maybe his head won't hurt and he won't be so tired. Maybe Bruce will even let him do some light exercise; yoga, or tai chi. Alfred will make omelettes even though it's lunchtime, and Steph will drop by with his homework, and Dick will binge watch Star Trek with them both.

It won't be perfect, probably not even great, but it will at least be better. Because everyone knows the first forty-eight hours are the worst. From here, he can only go up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are love, or come yell at me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com/).


End file.
